And, absurd as the paradox appears--and even taking into consideration your notorious indifference to your wife and your rather silly reputation as a debutante chaser--I do believe, Dysart, that, deep inside of you somewhere, there is enough latent decency to have inspired this resentment toward me--a resentment perfectly natural in any man who acts squarely toward his wife--but rather far fetched in your case." Dysart, pallid, menacing, laid his hand on a chair.
The other laughed.
"As bad as that ?" he asked contemptuously.

"Don't do it, Dysart; it isn't in your line.

You're only a good-looking, popular, dancing man; all your deviltry is in your legs, and I'd be obliged if they'd presently waft you out of my room." "I suppose," said Dysart unsteadily, "that you would make yourself noisily ridiculous if I knocked your blackguard head off." "It's only in novels that people are knocked down successfully and artistically," admitted the other.

"In everyday life they resent it.
Yes--if you do anything hysterical there will be some sort of a disgraceful noise, I suppose.

It's shoot or suit in these unromantic days, Dysart, otherwise the newspapers laugh at you." Dysart's well-shaped fists relaxed, the chair dropped, but even when he let it go murder danced in his eyes.
"Yes," he said, "it's shoot or a suit in these days; you're perfectly right, Mallett.